<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Manson's Model by SkinSlave</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22893751">Manson's Model</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave'>SkinSlave</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reimagined Classics [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works, Marilyn Manson (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Babbling, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired by..., Los Angeles, Lovecraftian, Missing Persons, Monsters, Painting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:41:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,293</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22893751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinSlave/pseuds/SkinSlave</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of H.P. Lovecraft's Pickman's Model in a current era Marilyn Manson AU.</p><p>TW: curse words, purplish prose, unreliable unidentified narrator, too much foreshadowing, the creeps, reference to Brandon Pertzborn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reimagined Classics [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Manson's Model</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'm not crazy, Tim. Plenty of others have weirder quirks than this. Why don't you laugh at Dave Grohl? He won't get in an elevator. If I don't like that damned subway, it's my own business. We got here faster in the car anyway. We would've had to walk three blocks uphill if we'd taken the metro.</p><p>I know I'm more nervous than I was when you saw me last. Don't psychoanalyse me. There's plenty of reason, god knows, and I'm lucky to be sane at all. Why the third degree? You didn't used to be so nosey.</p><p>Well, if you won't let it go… I guess there's no reason not to tell you. Maybe you ought to know anyway. You acted like a mother hen when you heard I walked away from the artists' group, and from Manson. Now that he's disappeared, I go around to the chateau once in a while, but my nerves aren't what they used to be.</p><p>No, I don't know what happened to Manson, and I don't wanna know. I guess you figured I had some inside information when I dropped him. That's why I don't want to get involved. Let the police find what they can. It won't be much, considering they don't even know about the basement flat in the arts district he rented under the name of Peters.</p><p>I'm not sure I could even find it again. Not that I'd ever try, even in broad daylight.</p><p>Yes, I know why he kept the place. I'm getting to that. And I think you'll understand pretty quickly why I can't tell the cops. They'd ask me to show them, but I couldn't go back there even if I knew the way. There was something there. And now I can't use the subway, or even go into dark parking garages. Go ahead and laugh.</p><p>You know I didn't drop Manson for the same reasons that others have - censorship or fear or whatever. Morbid art doesn't shock me. When a man has the genius that Manson had, it's an honor to know him, no matter what direction his work takes. The world never had a greater artist than Marilyn Manson. It was true a decade ago and it's true now. I never budged, even when he showed <em> Ghoul Feeding. </em>You remember when the gallery kicked him out?</p><p>You know, it takes something profound to do the stuff Manson did. Any magazine-cover hack can splash paint around and call it a nightmare or a Witches' Sabbath or a portrait of the devil, but only a great artist can make it really resonate. Only a real artist knows the anatomy of discomfort… the exact lines and proportions that link up with some ancient genetic fear… the colors and shadows that wake up something strange. I don't have to tell you the difference between Fuseli and shitty Photoshop. </p><p>There's something outside of life that a painter catches, that catches us. Thompson has it. Rea has it. Zawadski has it. And Manson had it like no one ever had it before or… I hope to fuck… ever will again.</p><p>I don't know what it is that they see. You know, in ordinary art there's a huge difference between truly organic subjects and the dull still-lifes that the kids churn out by the dozen. The weird artists summon up the vital ghost of something real to lend to the fantasy. If I knew what Manson saw… No… Here, have a drink with me. I need one. God, if I saw what that man saw… if he even was a man… I'd be dead.</p><p>You know Manson focused on faces after he switched from watercolor to oil. He put so much sheer hell into those faces. No one else came close to just inventing nightmares. Maybe if you went back to the guys who made gargoyles and chimeras for Notre Dame and Mont Saint-Michel. They believed in all kinds of things. And maybe they saw things too…</p><p>I remember you asking Manson, before you went on tour again, where he got his ideas. Remember what an ass he was about it? That's part of why Brandon left. He said Manson was more repulsive every day, and almost scary at the end. He said he was changing in a way he didn't like, in a way that wasn't human. He said he was losing it. If you talked to Brandon then, you probably told him that he was letting the art get in his head. I told him that myself.</p><p>But I didn't drop him for anything like that. In fact, I admired him more and more. That <em> Ghoul Feeding </em>was amazing. They kicked it out of the exhibit, the ICA wouldn't take it as a gift. He couldn't even sell the thing, so it's still in storage. I guess his family will take it back to Ohio. You know he's from Canton, right? He had some cultist ancestors hung there in 1792.</p><p>Anyway, I got in the habit of hanging out with Manson a lot, especially if I was working on some dark art ideas. His painting inspired me and he always had wicked suggestions. He showed me his works in progress he had lying around, including some sketches that would probably have gotten him blacklisted if anyone saw them. Before long I was almost… obsessed? in love? I'd sit and just listen to him spout his art theories and philosophies.</p><p>The more I worshipped him, and the more the public vilified him, the more he let me in. Until one evening, he hinted that he could show me something really unusual, more fucked up than anything he had in the house.</p><p>"You know," he said, "there are things you can't just put out here, things you can't even begin here. My work is to capture the overtones of the soul. I'm not gonna find those in brand-new, manicured, irrigated lawns. This neighborhood isn't LA. It isn't anything yet. It doesn't have memories or spirits. If there are ghosts here, they're the tame ghosts of ranches and desert. I want real ghosts - the ghosts of men who've looked on hell and understood what they saw.</p><p>"The arts district is the place. Never mind Skid Row. A real artist would know that it's worth it. Shit, man. Places like that aren't made. They grow. All those people living and feeling and dying there. All of the history. What do these zombies know about life and the forces behind it?</p><p>"You can call it insanity, that esoteric shit, but my ancestors could've told you things. They hung nine of my relatives while the preacher looked on. Sanctimonious bastards are always so afraid of anyone who dares step out of the cage of monotony. They did it there and they do it here. Their fear is so damn loud and it means nothing.</p><p>"LA has the same roots. Native American sites, buildings with bricked-up rooms and wells in the cellar, mine shafts that echo voices from nowhere, priestesses and the things they summoned, pirates and the things they brought from the sea, smugglers, privateers… And they knew how to live! They enlarged their world and found new ones. And now the city's overrun with such pale-pink brains that so-called artists shit their pants at anything they can't bring home to mama.</p><p>"The only saving grace of the present is that it's too damned stupid to question the past very closely. What do maps and books really have to say? Not a damn thing. I could show you places downtown that have meaning, historically, cosmically. Nobody has a clue. Nobody else, that is.</p><p>"I can tell you're into it. What if I told you I have another studio over there where I catch the real spirit of horror and make things I could never even think of from here? Obviously I'm not gonna tell everyone. They already think I'm a satanic degenerate, evolving in reverse. I decided a long time ago that you have to paint terror from life, so I did some exploring in places terror might live.</p><p>"I've got a place I don't think anyone else has seen in years. Not too far from society on a map, but light-years away in terms of the soul. I took it because it has an old well in the basement, like I told you. You wouldn't believe what I pay for it. The windows are boarded up, which is great because I need the dark to work. I paint right there in the basement, where the inspiration is thickest. Told the landlord my name was Peters.</p><p>"If you're up for it, we could go there tonight. You understand what I'm trying to do. And I've done so much there, really let myself go. I think you'd enjoy it."</p><p>Jesus, Tim, what was I supposed to do after that sell? I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming like a fan girl. We had an Uber drop us fairly close and walked from there. I'm not sure of the route. I didn't look at the cross-streets. But we ended up in an alley I'd never seen before, then another. It got so dark, he used his phone as a flashlight. I've never seen it that dark in LA.</p><p>The door was barely on its hinges. He unlocked it and ushered me in. It looked like a haunted house in a movie. Cobwebs, peeling wallpaper, random furniture from the 50's, the works. I followed him into another room. He turned on a battery-powered lantern and told me to make myself at home.</p><p>I'm not squeamish, Tim, but what was on the walls made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. They were his pictures, the ones he said he couldn't paint anywhere else. He wasn't kidding when he said he let himself go. Here, I need another drink. You want one?</p><p>I don't even know how to describe them. The unbelievable horror flew in the face of any kind of morality or honor. There was nothing exotic or fantastical about them. The backgrounds were local - cemeteries and sand, parks, old neighborhoods, but from the 70s and 80s as far as I could tell.</p><p>The madness was in the figures, since Manson had started focusing on portraits. They weren't completely human, just human-like to varying degrees. Some had dog-like features. They were all kind of rubbery and disgusting. I see them when I close my eyes.</p><p>They were usually… feeding. Sometimes there were several, in tunnels and other dark places, fighting over their prey, victims in piles like treasure. Sometimes they were climbing in windows, sitting on the chests of sleeping people, tearing out their throats. In one there was some kind of ceremony with a human who looked just enough like them to send a cold shiver down my spine.</p><p>But it wasn't the themes or the gore that bothered me. I'm not a fucking child. It was the faces, Tim. Those damned faces that drooled and leered like they were alive on the canvas. I could've believed they were alive! They were that good. It was like he'd walked through hell with his paint and spawned demons with his brush. Give me the bottle, Tim.</p><p>There was one… <em> The Lesson. </em> I wish I hadn't seen it. Picture a circle of these nasty dog-things in an alley, teaching a little kid how to feed like they do. A kid. A changeling. You know, the old myth where supernatural creatures leave their spawn in cradles in exchange for babies they steal? It was like seeing how those stolen kids grow up - how they live - and I started seeing these patterns. It was like a gradient of perversion between the human figures and the creatures, like one came from the other.</p><p>The changelings… What happens to the imposters? He painted that, too. Nice house, good family, big cross on the wall, parents cooking dinner, kid setting the table. They looked like good people except… the boy… he was obviously just… wrong… unclean. And for some damn reason, Manson had made the kid look like himself.</p><p>Another lamp came on and he asked if I wanted to see his "modern studies." I hadn't given him any feedback. I was too stunned. But he saw my face. He knew. And he was proud.</p><p>You know me, Tim. I'm not a pussy. Ok? You know that. And I'd just seen those paintings, so I figured I was ready. I fucking wasn't.</p><p>God, he could paint.</p><p>There was this one called <em> Subway Accident, </em>where a bunch of those monsters were climbing out of a grate at a subway platform. There was a couple waiting and they tore them apart. Another showed them prowling around Grand Park. And a lot of basements with the fucking things hiding under stairs and behind water heaters, just waiting.</p><p>One showed a kind of map of the city with tunnels full of the things. There were a lot of cemetery pictures, too. Breaking into mausoleums and digging, I guess to… to feed… and laughing at "missing" posters… They were everywhere, just under the surface.</p><p>I got a hold on myself and tried to think it through. On the one hand, they were nauseating because they came from Manson. What kind of sick fuck dreams up shit like that, and gets off on using it to freak someone out? But they freaked me out because they were good. Really good. But not in a shadowy, abstract kind of way. Nothing was blurred or distorted. Outlines were sharp and lifelike. The details were almost painfully defined. And the faces…</p><p>It wasn't an artist's interpretation of a thing, but the thing itself, crystal clear. He wasn't making implications or using symbolism. He was reflecting this long-established, cold, uniform horror-world that he saw perfectly. I had no clue how he came up with any of it, but he was invested in it. And he was, from sketch to varnish, a scientific realist.</p><p>He led me downstairs to his actual studio. I braced myself for whatever terror he was working up down there. The steps were damp and sagged. He turned on another lamp and gestured toward the far corner. There was the circular brick well. It was bigger than I expected, big enough to fall in, with a kind of wooden disc for a lid.</p><p>That, Manson said, was what he'd been talking about - an opening into some network of antiquated shafts and tunnels, carved along Ley lines or something. I tried not to let his legends work me up, but it was creepy. Turning away, I moved toward the work area. It was kind of an office, separated from the main area by a door.</p><p>The unfinished pictures on easels or propped against the walls were as ghastly as the finished ones upstairs. I admired his effort. Every scene was blocked out carefully with just the right perspective and proportions. The man was a master. I said it all along and I'll say it even now, knowing as much as I do.</p><p>I noticed a camera on a side table. He said he used it for reference pictures. That way he could paint the backgrounds just as he wanted to.</p><p>The whole atmosphere was weird, cold and wet and surrounded by half-finished ghouls. Manson suddenly pulled a sheet from a huge canvas on one side and I almost pissed myself. Jesus, Tim. I actually screamed.</p><p>It was a giant dog-thing with red eyes that seemed somehow reflective. In its bony hands, it held a completely life-sized man… or what had been a man… and gnawed at the head. It was crouched and glaring. It looked as if it might drop its snack and lunge for a juicier meal. I could see the mold in its hair. I could almost hear it breathing.</p><p>In a blank corner of the canvas there was a curled up piece of paper. I figured it was the background reference, though I had no idea how he could make the creature even more shocking. I reached out to flatten it, to see.</p><p>Suddenly, Manson jerked, startled. He'd been standing quietly, listening, since my scream had echoed through the basement. At that point, he seemed genuinely scared. He pulled a pistol from under his jacket and held a finger to his lips. He stepped out of the studio and shut the door.</p><p>I just stood there, frozen in place, listening, my heart pounding. There was a faint… like a scurrying sound, like rats, but big… and some squeaking, I think. And then a knock, but not like a knock on the door. It was more like a wooden door hitting brick. It gave me goosebumps.</p><p>It happened again, louder. Then this grating noise. Manson yelled something I couldn't make out. And six gunshots in rapid succession. More squealing, more wood bumping, and then the door swung open. I almost had a damn heart attack. It was Manson, tucking his pistol away, saying something about rats in the well.</p><p>"Christ knows what they eat," he said. "The tunnels go all over. But whatever it is, they must be running out. They were really determined to get in here. I imagine you yelling stirred them up. Shitty old places like this… the vermin are a pain in the ass, but they're good for the atmosphere."</p><p>I was more than done after that shit, Tim. Manson said he wanted to show me the place, and he did. I followed him out, back down some alleys, until I kinda knew where we were. It was late and Uber said it would take a while, so we walked a few more blocks so I could at least have some light while I waited. He left me there and I never spoke to him again.</p><p>Why not? Fuck, let me get to it. Here. Light this for me. I just need to relax, is all. No, it wasn't the art, though I swear if he tried to show them, he'd be a lot less welcome at the chateau… and yeah, I guess you know why I'm jittery about the subway. But it wasn't that. It was something I found in my jeans the next day. You know, the curled up paper? I guess when he pulled his gun I was reaching for it and I just took it without thinking. Here, have another turn.</p><p>Piece of paper in my pocket, of all things, turned me off of him: Marilyn Manson, the greatest artist I've ever known and the most damned devil to ever crawl out of hell. I'm not being dramatic. Brandon was right, Tim. He wasn't strictly human. Either he'd always been that way, or he was turning that way, but it doesn't matter. Turn on that lamp, will you?</p><p>I burned the fucking thing. Look, I don't pretend to understand it. And I never saw the "rats." But there are things we don't know about. I don't know if I buy the church stuff or Ley lines, but there are just… secrets… out there. I mean, you know how messed up his paintings were, how bitchy he got when you asked where he got the idea.</p><p>Well, the paper had a background, but it wasn't a background <em> reference </em> . It was his own basement, the view from the studio, kind of off-center, like the door was mostly closed. But the focal point was… it was the thing he was painting, the giant thing, just sitting… sitting there… on the lip of the well. No, I… Jesus, Tim, <em> you're not listening to me! It wasn't a goddamn sketch! It was a Polaroid!</em></p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>